The Consequence of Spontaneity
by Underlined
Summary: He found her, alone, in a dark alley. He wasn't going to help, but he did. Clutching onto his childhood nemesis, he Apparated, mere seconds before they were seen.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is based on J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series. I do not own anything other than my computer.

Warning: Blatant disregard for half of Rowling's Deathly Hallows, and her epilogue (I'm sorry!).

Rated M for safety

* * *

**Prologue**

* * *

Draco Malfoy – progeny of renowned Death Eater Lucius Malfoy; destined to follow in his father's footsteps – was making rounds in Hogsmeade, alone, as was usual fare for a Junior Deatheater, when he chanced upon a curious sight. A brown fuzzy creature shivering in one of the numerous dark alleys that now seemed to make up Hogsmeade; the village where children used to visit as a reprieve from the stress in school; where they used to stock up on prank materials which generated more laughs (and even more detentions). Good memories, those were.

He discreetly looked around, before he apprehensively approached the trembling mess, trying to determine its identity at the same time. It wouldn't do to die for his curiosity, not that he had much to look forward to in life; taking orders was hardly his idea of fun, dodging Resistance attempts didn't quite float his boat either.

He was now five feet away and could determine that the trembling was from a combination of sobs and shivers, and that what he had initially assumed to be a creature was indeed a human girl, a very familiar girl. _Granger! Shit! Could recognise that bird's nest anywhere! _He panicked. His first reaction was to leave, and leave he did. He walked out of that alley without another look, his heart pounding. All he could think of was that she shouldn't be there, not with her magical abilities. He didn't have a sliver of hope for attaining freedom if even the Gryffindor Princess was cowering in a back alley!

Halfway through the sixth random alley, he stopped. He couldn't wipe the image of the pitiful girl out of his mutinous head. Not in the first alley, not in the second, and definitely not in the sixth. He cursed, and reluctantly turned back to the direction where he had come from.

After making several wrong turns and nearly stumbling on the cobbled streets in his confusion, he finally came upon the now familiar sight. Only this time, the trembling was slightly less intense and none of it from the sobbing.

Shaking his head at his impulsiveness, he nearly turned back again upon seeing the actual state she was in (and how much work he might have to do). She was clutching at what remained of her clothes, slightly ripped and hardly sufficient in the cold of the night.

What made him stay was the fact that lying further down the alley was a motionless entity in a pool of blood. A strip of dark red fabric, made even darker by his blood, was tied around his arm; a snatcher. It wasn't in their policy to travel alone. She was lucky they hadn't found her, yet. It seemed as if the decision was already made for him.

He directed an _Obliviate_ at the nameless man (better safe than sorry), and then extended a hand towards the girl. No response came. He looked at her. Her head was still down, in a fashion so unnatural for such a usually-feisty person. He sighed impatiently, and started to haul her up as roughly as he could let himself be. What came next, he could have sworn he saw coming.

Her shrill voice assaulted his frayed nerves, her legs kicked haphazardly and dangerously close to his most precious, and surprisingly, her hands still remained pressed close to her chest.

Patience running thin and time running out, Draco raised his wand once again: _Petrificus Totalus!_ There was no way that she was going to survive alone, now that anyone within a three-mile radius would have been alerted to her presence.

Without another thought, he hauled her up, almost losing his balance. Clutching onto his childhood nemesis, he Apparated, mere seconds before they were seen. It was at that last instant that he noticed a broken wand in the spot she had previously occupied.


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Still based off Rowling's work. I still don't own anything. =(

* * *

Chapter 1

* * *

They landed in an unbalanced heap on his bedroom floor, the carpet dampening the force of their fall. As if burnt, Draco leapt off of Hermione's still stiff form and dusted himself off, not once chancing a look at her.

Wasting no time, he reinforced the silencing charm in his room. He was already familiar with the ritual, having done so weekly for the past six months since his home had been designated as a resort for the Dark Lord and his guests. The temporary charm probably still held for a few more days, but he was taking no chances. That girl had a set of lungs. It wouldn't do to have her screaming and alerting the many temporary (he hoped) members of his household. He thought she would scream; girls always liked to scream at the smallest things. That reminded him, he should probably find a more permanent silencer, just in case.

Feeling marginally more at ease, he strode to the connecting study and grabbed the unfinished bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey off of his desk, taking a swig straight from the bottle. Hygiene be damned. He'd probably already gotten more germs from the girl than a shower would fix. Besides, he thought that he deserved a whole bloody bottle for his little rescue mission, carried out however reluctantly.

He plopped himself onto the couch like what he expected a Weasley would do. If his father were to see him then, sprawled all over the couch and drinking straight from the bottle, with That in his room… Hah! He had no doubt that he would be disowned and then surrendered to the Dark Lord in a heartbeat. But Father wouldn't be here, would he? He was probably grovelling at said Dark Lord's feet, begging for forgiveness for whatever atrocity he hadn't been committing.

"What have I gotten myself into?" he whispered to himself, shaking his head incredulously, staring momentarily at the now half-empty bottle, then taking another swig, savouring in the deliciousness of the burn slithering down his throat.

Senses mildly dulled with liquor-induced faux courage, he finally dared to chance a peek at the girl. She was still there where he had left her.

Of course she was still there. He was especially skilled at casting the body-bind. He didn't lack practice with the abundance of First Years in school. "Use their own spells against them," his father used to say back in the old days.

Sighing yet again, he pushed himself off the couch and set the bottle back down on the desk, positioning it to stand majestically in the midst of six much shorter crystal glasses on a tray, making sure to position the glasses equidistant from each other.

He cautiously walked to the spot where she laid, still largely motionless. Except, of course, for her eyes. They were close to shooting flames at him.

"Tsk tsk. You know glares don't hurt me, Granger," he sneered down at her. "Especially when said glarer is immobile."

The glaring didn't cease. He hadn't expected it to. In his head, he gave himself an imaginary point for being right.

Deciding to ignore the virtual daggers for more important matters, Draco considered his next move.

He could release her from the body-bind, to bind her again when she set about attacking him, which, he was sure, she would. The witch had killed someone who hadn't provoked her continuously for the past five-or-so years. Who knew what she would try to do to him!

Or he could hide somewhere (the bathroom was spacious enough for a day), leaving her there until the spell wore off and any of her overt displays of anger had died down.

Of course, he could always toss her out into the hallways; leave her there to defend herself.

He was leaning heavily on option three, until he remembered the broken wand in the alley that was very possibly hers. The Death Eaters were more than likely to make the connection, especially if they found her right outside his room, or even in the Manor. He wasn't about to implicate his parents for his foolishness. The other inhabitants, he could care less.

The only other way was to personally bring her to the Dark Lord. Frankly, he wasn't very fond of being in His presence. There was no guarantee of reward, unless one counted the "reward" of getting to torture the hostage. No, thank you. At the same time, the plan could backfire and he could somehow be punished for bringing in a Mudblood and tarnishing the holy residence of the Dark Lord. The risks far outweighed the non-existent rewards.

So option three and four were out. He absolutely would not jeopardise his already-precarious position, much less for her. At least by keeping her in, he was fairly confident of not jeopardising it any more than the damage he had already done in the past half-hour.

Satisfied by the elimination of the two options, he didn't notice her hand as it whipped out and grabbed him by the ankle. She gave a forceful tug and he was on the ground, fortunately cushioned (again) by the plush carpeting.

"Payback," she shrugged as way of explanation.

Yes, there was the fifth option of not doing anything before the curse wore off. Thankfully, it was significantly less painful than he had imagined.

* * *

Hermione started to push herself off of the floor, only to fall back onto it with a thud and a growl of frustration. Curse that bastard who broke her hand. Taking a deep breath, she tried again; only this time, with her uninjured hand.

By the time she was in a seating position, Draco was already on his feet, a few steps further away this time, staring down at her apprehensively. She rolled her eyes and huffed out in indignation, "I'm not going to do that again. It would just be unoriginal."

She cradled her injured hand to her chest, into the same position which Draco had mistakenly thought to be a display of female modesty in the alley. Yes, still very much broken.

Gingerly, she set her limp hand onto her lap and reached for her jean pocket where her wand was tucked, or rather, was supposed to be tucked. Sheer panic ran through her, clouding her memory. She looked at him with a mixture of anger, panic, and a minute amount of hope,

"Where's my WAND?" her voice raising with each word.

"In the alley," he was slightly affronted by her accusatory tone.

"WHY?" she shrieked.

"It's broken," he simply replied, frowning down at her, as if not understanding her rage.

She was unable to control the hysterical rambling that came next, "Why would you do that? You think it's perfectly normal to leave a wand, whatever state it is in, in an alley, where anyone could get their hands on it? Do you know how much trouble you've gotten both of us into? Now they'll know who happily disappeared after their dearest compatriot died! Do you have ANY idea what they would do to us if they found me? You would know, wouldn't you, you slimy-"

"Don't you dare finish that. I'm not the one acting all high and mighty after brutally stabbing someone to death!" he snapped back in frustration, eyes narrowing into slits. It wasn't his fault. He wasn't a psychic. How was he supposed to know that her bloody wand wasn't with her before he'd Apparated?

She gaped at him, then averted her eyes, choosing instead to look down at her hands. He was right, of course. She didn't know how many people he had had a hand in killing, but she had ended someone's life with her own hands that night.

The blood would wash off, but the taint would always remain.

She couldn't find the will to continue the mockery of a conversation.

* * *

He honestly didn't think she would be defeated so easily. He felt almost sorry for her. Almost.

He knelt down and wrenched her injured wrist towards himself, wand in hand, a diagnostic spell at the tip of his tongue.

Who would have thought that she would jerk back? Fine, maybe he had hoped for just this reflexive action, but he hadn't expected the result.

The 'pop' that followed was more felt than heard. It was too sickening to be natural. It made him quite queasy. Brown eyes met grey for just an instant before she closed her eyes in pain, but she didn't make a sound. He cringed.

He swallowed the bile threatening its way up, and performed the diagnostic spell without any more interruptions; a fractured arm and a newly-dislocated elbow.

"Episkey or Skele-gro?"

"What?" her eyes were unfocused and her expression was blank.

"Do you want me to heal you, or do you want to heal yourself; Episkey, or Skele-gro, Granger?" He spoke slowly this time, as if speaking to a child. If she took offense, she didn't show it.

He found himself a little disappointed at her lack of reaction to his words, but smirked at the conflict clearly etched on her face. To trust him to point his wand at her without inflicting more harm, or to take the safer but indubitably more agonising route?

"Skele-gro."

Thought so.

"Suit yourself. Are you hurt elsewhere?"

"No."

Setting her hand onto her lap, more gently this time, he summoned a house elf. "Dippy!"

With a sharp _crack_, the small creature donning an off-white pillowcase appeared in front of them and bowed.

Without waiting for the elf's greeting, he spoke, "Dippy, fetch me a bottle of Skele-gro potion. Also, do not mention a thing about my SECRET guest; I don't want anybody to know about her. Understand?" He saw the arching of her eyebrow at the emphasis on the word.

"Dippy understands, Young Master Draco," the relatively young elf nodded eagerly.

Draco dismissed Dippy with a nod before half-turning back to her. "The Dark Lord is currently… residing in my home," he said as way of explanation.

She nodded gravely, not offering any words of her own.

Without another word, he stood up and proceeded to wash up for the night, but not before throwing a bunched-up white button-down shirt at her. He was not getting blood all over his room.

* * *

AN: Reviews would make me happy. Really!

Did a rewrite of this chapter because the first version felt... lacking and childish. I hope this is an improvement! The new chapter will come shortly after I edit it as well.


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter franchise belongs to J.K. Rowling. I am not J.K. Rowling. Therefore I do not own it.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 2**

* * *

In just three and a half minutes, Hermione had managed to ease herself onto the more comfortable couch, clean shirt draped over a shoulder. Record time, she might add. The ostensibly expensive carpet wasn't uncomfortable, mind. She just preferred to be as close to eye level with her new roommate as was possible.

"Guess I'm sleeping here tonight. Hopefully I'll never have to be thankful for such an obnoxious piece of upholstery again," she sighed to herself. She wasn't very sure whether she was referring to the couch or to the owner. Probably both.

Into the fourth minute, she was planning her next move. She was well aware of the threat outside of the room she was currently in. Of course, there was a significant chance of Malfoy turning against her just as unexpectedly as he had offered his help. She was just going to have to do a bloody good job of staying alive in there until she had a better plan, even if it meant holding her tongue for a while. _You can do it, Hermione Granger!_ At that moment, she heard a _crack_ of Apparition, and the bathroom door opened.

* * *

"Dippy brings Young Master Draco bone-growing potion." Dippy bowed.

Draco nodded and gestured to Hermione. Without another look, he walked straight to his bed, lifted the covers, and climbed in, occupying the centre of the king-sized bed.

Just because he was offering his help didn't mean he was also offering his bed. Besides, he wasn't the one who had gotten them into such a predicament in the first place. His humanity only extended that far. He closed his eyes, but his mind was alert, his wand in hand.

* * *

Nothing out of the ordinary there: once a git, always a git. She rolled her eyes.

Hermione turned to Dippy and smiled at the wrinkly house elf. Dippy handed her the bottle and Disapparated, all without a single look at her. Her smile dipped into a frown

From the direction of the bed came the all too familiar drawl, "You have my permission to use the bathroom, Granger. You've figured out where it is by now, I hope."

Permission her foot! She didn't say it out loud, of course. Head held high and biting her tongue, she brought both the potion and the shirt with her. She did however slam the door behind her, hard.

She tore her very-much-tattered shirt off easily. And pulled on the button down shirt she was so kindly bestowed (Oh thank you, Young Master Draco, she mocked).

Dropping her damaged clothes into the bin, she contemplated her surroundings.

She grabbed what looked like a fresh towel (she hoped it was!) off the rack. Sitting on the floor, leaning against the bathtub, she went through her plan of action. Drink, bite, scream. Not much of a plan, she had to admit.

She bit on the stopper and yanked it out. Like a savage, she thought with a wry smile. Holding the bottle away from her, she took a deep breath. Better than _Episkey_. Better than _Episkey_. Better than _Episkey_.

She took three large gulps. Her injury wasn't serious enough to warrant downing the whole bottle, but there was no way in hell she was going to do this again if it didn't heal properly the first time around. She took another two for good measure.

Quickly setting the bottle down, she grabbed the towel and brought it to her mouth. At least it tasted clean to her. Not like my taste buds are working properly after chugging down that vile potion, she thought bitterly. She felt the burn of the potion as it travelled down her oesophagus. Then it came.

The pain was excruciating, to say the least. The burning travelled down her arm, only to intensify tenfold. It was as if her hand was immersed in boiling water, except that there wasn't any chance of the water cooling any time soon. All she could think of at the moment was: Harry wasn't kidding in Second Year_._

* * *

The towel muffled her screams, but the amount of noise coming from the bathroom was still quite significant. Draco cringed. "Damned Gryffindor pride," he huffed. He flipped on his side, and brought a pillow over his head.

* * *

A good half hour had passed before Hermione started adjusting to the pain. Oh the pain was still there alright, but she was not going to spend the night facing the toilet, thank you very much.

Left hand on the edge of the bathtub, she pulled herself up, paying particular attention to her healing hand. It would take the whole night, she knew. Choosing to forget the bottle of Skele-gro on the floor, she spat the towel into the hamper, turned the knob and entered the bedroom.

She was slightly surprised that it wasn't made completely dark by Malfoy just to spite her. Just enough candlelight allowed her to make her way onto the couch without walking into any of the furniture. Carefully lying down, she gently placed her healing arm on her stomach. Sleep was fitful that night.

* * *

In the wee hours of the morning, soft whimpers of "No!" and "Stop!" echoed through the room. Draco's pillow had slipped off of his head mid-sleep, and he was annoyed to find that the sun wasn't yet shining when he opened his eyes. Granger.

He pulled his comforter up over his head and tried to go back to sleep, but the incessant mumbling turned into outright screams.

Frustrated, he flung off his comforter and sat up. Grabbing the previously forgotten pillow, he flung it at the couch, hitting the back with a dull thud.

A gasp, and then a head cautiously peeked over the sofa. His job was done. Lying back down, he once again pulled the comforter over his head.

* * *

Hermione didn't know whether to scream in outrage at his rudeness, or to thank him for waking her up from her nightmare. She settled on doing neither of the above.

She spotted the offending object: a ridiculously overstuffed pillow sitting innocently on the floor. She involuntarily shuddered at what that implied for his physical strength.

There was no way she was going back to sleep now. Not with the nightmare. She took to examining her arm. A tentative prod showed that her arm was almost fully healed. What was left of the burn was a dull ache. Thank Merlin!

Looking at the pillow once more, she decided that since he wasn't going to use it, she might as well take advantage of it.

Crawling out of the couch as stealthily as a girl with an injured arm could manage, she made her way around the couch. In her haste, she stubbed her toe on the end table next to the couch. The resulting thud was small, but the damage was done.

Frozen, she slowly turned her head towards the bed. There was no movement. There was no movement mostly because he had been observing her even before she'd made the decision to collect the pillow.

He arched an eyebrow. Well she wasn't sure whether he did (she didn't want to look at him), but she expected that he would. The whole situation seemed quite ridiculous this early in the morning.

"Well?"

"Well, what?" she bit out, desperately trying not to keel over from both the pain and the embarrassment.

"Get on with it."

"You sick pervert! Do you take some sort of twisted pleasure in watching someone grab a pillow from the floor?"

"No, but now that you mentioned it…"

"Urgh! You're impossible!" She retrieved the pillow as quickly as she could and hurried back to the couch. NOT to hide from him, she assured herself. This time, her toe thankfully stayed collision-free.

The pillow was too overstuffed to hug with only her good arm, so she settled on using it to cushion her head. Much better. Almost like lying on a normal bed.

She spent the rest of the dark hours in that position, occasionally moving her head around to examine the parts of the bedroom in her limited field of vision. After the fifth round of inspection, she fell asleep once again.

* * *

**AN**: I'd like to think the focus of the story is on the relationship, not on the action. Hopefully I manage to pull it off without boring everyone, much. Hehe!

I haven't planned out the entire story, so even though I'm updating once every few days, please don't expect it to be a long-lasting trend.

That said, feedback is certainly welcome! Cherry on top!


	4. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: please refer to the previous chapters if you really haven't seen the disclaimers for this story

* * *

**Chapter 3**

* * *

Daylight didn't come for a long time. Reason being: the curtains were charmed to block out light as long as any of the occupants were asleep, and Hermione slept like a log. The past months on the run were taxing, and sleeping in a tent with danger at the back of one's mind never did much for insomnia. It wasn't that she was purposely letting her guard down. The pillow and couch were just too damned comfortable that the nightmares didn't come back.

Draco was the first to awake. He had to think. Rescuing someone, anyone, from an alley wasn't the modus operandi of the Death Eaters, and he was quite certain it wouldn't be changing anytime soon. He couldn't decide whether he regretted saving her from certain death, so he decided to focus on more practical issues at hand.

At present, the Dark Lord and his inner circle Death Eaters were residing in his home. The Death Eaters had a room each, whereas Voldemort had demanded free rein to every single inch of the manor. That said, Draco doubted that the Dark Lord would simply wrench his door open. It was more characteristic of him to knock and give his subjects an illusion of choice. Draco just had to figure out how to hide her if such a thing were to happen while she was still in his room. That meant having to get her cooperation. He groaned. This was going to be a long day.

He climbed out of the bed and cautiously made his way to the bathroom. It was pitch black. The candles were charmed to remain unlit as long as anyone in the room was asleep, or it was bright outside. Design flaw, that, and those curtains. Never should have charmed them this way. Seemed like a good idea at first.

"Lumos." The tip of his wand lit up. He waved it around his general area. Satisfied it was accident-free, he stepped confidently towards the bathroom. He wasn't about to give Granger the benefit of having a laugh at his expense, no matter how amusing it was when she had been the butt of the same joke.

* * *

Hermione awoke to the sound of glass shattering. Shooting up from the couch, she reached for her wand, only to find it missing. Dismay set in as memories from the night before filled her. Malfoy. Ducking behind the couch, she strained to listen. She thought she'd heard swearing, but she couldn't be sure; whatever it had been had stopped.

She looked to her right, then to her left. The two table lamps were still where they had been last night. She crouched and stalked towards the one on the right, closer to the bathroom. It would be intuitive to move away from an approaching enemy, not towards.

She grabbed the lamp with her left hand, and waited. It sounded like a shower was running, but it didn't mean that it wasn't just a front to get her to lower her guard. She didn't relent. Not once. She wouldn't still be here if she hadn't been alert in the past months. And just because she had trusted him enough to sleep (twice!) in his room for the night didn't mean she couldn't change her mind. Now was as good a time as any to do so.

* * *

Five minutes found her in the same position, except this time her face reflected more boredom than suspicion. The door was flung open to reveal Draco Malfoy in all his glory, almost. She dropped the lamp with a resounding crash. The git was practically naked except for a damned towel!

The only sign that he had seen her was a raised eyebrow.

"I would ask you to pay for that, Granger, but I sincerely doubt you'd be able to," Malfoy drawled.

"Why are you naked?!" she exclaimed.

That damned raising of the eyebrow again. "Pray tell, why can't I be naked in my own home, in my own room, hmm?"

"Let me see... because there's someone else in the room? Have you no sense of modesty?" she shouted incredulously.

"Modesty? I don't see anyone else who is significant, Granger, because frankly, I don't give a rat's arse about you being here." He intoned, all the while strolling towards his wardrobe.

"You don't give a rat's arse about me being here? Then why don't I walk into the bathroom while you're bathing, see if you care then? Why don't I disturb you when you're sleeping tonight, or tomorrow?" She knew she was being irrational, but that was the best retort she could come up with that early in the morning, after that big a shock. "Or why don-" To her utter indignation, he actually had the audacity to drop his towel while she was looking at him. She quickly turned the other way with an audible 'eep!' that evoked a chuckle from him.

"Firstly, you've just proven that you're a prude, Granger, you wouldn't walk in on me if you could help it. Secondly, I know from experience that you're not an idiot. I'm the one with the wand and you know I can sleep in here with you stowed away in the study, dead or alive." He couldn't, especially if she was dead, if anyone was dead, but she didn't need to know that he wasn't anything less than coldblooded.

She didn't reply. She was glad he couldn't see the redness on her cheeks, mostly anger but still part embarrassment. Whether the embarrassment was for him or for herself, she wasn't very sure.

What she was relatively certain of was that the room felt very stuffy at the moment. She desperately wanted a nice bath, or at least a quick shower to cool her down. After all, she was now perfectly capable of washing off the disgusting grime from the night before, what with her hand already healed.

She chewed on her bottom lip, wondering how she could get him to grant her request. She could just run into the bathroom without asking him. Actually, that seemed like a fine idea, up until she remembered something important: there was no physical lock on the bathroom door, and she had no wand.

She didn't trust him enough to leave her in peace until she was done, especially not after the current display of a complete lack of modesty on his part. She wouldn't be able to say that she didn't know any better.

She at least wanted his word that he wouldn't barge in like it was his home (which it was) and give her that bored look that she was itching to smack off of his face (which she had, back in Third Year, except it wasn't bored that time, but no matter). She decided that she just didn't like his face.

Plucking up her courage, she put on the most confident tone she could manage, "Malfoy, do you need the bathroom for... say… the next twenty minutes?"

"I already gave you permission to use the bathroom yesterday night, Granger. You don't need to ask every time you need to go. I wouldn't want you to soil my carpets when I'm not around to give you permission." He added as an afterthought, "Besides, it's not as if the bathroom's booby-trapped with someone else's kind gesture, or some such nonsense."

She silently fumed. "I apologise for leaving the potion in there, and I am not asking you for your permission," she gritted out, "I am politely asking for you to not enter the bathroom when I'm in it." _Because I am unable to lock it, _the implication was clear.

"Would you like me to lock it for you?" he said, sickeningly sweet.

"No, thank you. Wouldn't want to owe you any more favours now, would I?" She replied in an equally fake tone.

"No, of course not, any more would be trespassing on my kindness," was his reply. He turned his back to her signalling an end to the conversation. She couldn't see it, of course

Hermione snorted. She entered the bathroom, careful to keep her back to him, still.

* * *

Draco finished dressing and set to work. He had a lot of thinking to do. He took a look at the bottle of Ogden's on his desk. It would not do to tempt the girl with a dangerous bottle within reach. Things could get ugly when they set about discussing the next course of action, and he planned on making use of her brains to get him out of this mess. He took a swig, then locked it under his desk.

He took out a piece of parchment and made a list:  
1. Find out what happened

That was about it, really. Further actions depended on what her story was, and how likely they were looking for her. Truth be told, he wasn't keen on killing her indirectly (or directly) after having harboured her in his room for the night. He wasn't one to throw in the towel; especially not after just ten hours. He never did like failing. Besides, she could put in a good word for him if the light side won. He thought that she owed him that much, at least.

On the other hand, he wasn't going to announce his defection prematurely. There was a fair chance that Voldemort was going to win. He had to have a way out if it came to that.

He added on to his list:  
2. Get food in (obvious)  
3. Hiding places in room (in case)  
4. Escape route (difficult)  
5. Figure out way to lift charm off candles (urgent)  
6. Go for patrol (stay away from alley)

Number five was going to be tricky. He really hadn't thought things through when he had pleaded with his grandfather to implement it. How could he have? He was merely a child at that time; a child who had never had reason to share rooms, with anybody, at all. Also, it had seemed like a good idea then because he wasn't yet able to control his magic.

He had an urge to tear his hair out. He hoped they were right about the brightest witch of their age. His Malfoy ancestors never did like using simple spells or charms on the house they expected to stand forever; something about not being commoners or what not. He hoped she excelled in Advanced Charms back in school.

The click of the bathroom door made him pause, hands mid-air. He ran his hands through his hair instead. She was faster than expected. He had always had the impression that girls took a much longer time than necessary in the bathroom. Of course, those girls took better care of their hair, and had the privilege of uncompromised privacy.

He appraised her, starting with her hair. It was damp from her shower. Much like a drenched squirrel, actually. He couldn't decide whether it looked more atrocious then, or when it was dry.

She was dressed in his shirt and her jeans from the night before. Her jeans had a patch of blood below the left pocket, probably from where she had wiped her hand after killing the Snatcher.

He turned back to his list:  
7. Find out about Snatcher situation from outside

He added no afterthought about this one.

He turned to face her. "Anything you want to clue me in about? Maybe, I don't know," he shrugged, "why I found you cowering in an alley?"

She cringed. He gestured to the sitting area she had previously occupied.

They sat down, her on her makeshift bed and him on the armchair next to it.

Spying the broken lamp on the floor, he repaired it casually. Hermione looked on longingly, wishing she still had her wand. He turned back to her, staring expectantly.

* * *

**AN**: Hopefully, the story isn't going at too slow a pace, because truthfully, it's probably going to get even slower. Remember, it's hardly an Adventure-genre story!

Hope you still read it, though!

Oh, and of course, thanks for the reviews! Gave me some ideas, but I'm afraid I'm unable to follow through with it exactly.


	5. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Characters still belong to J.K. Rowling. Probably forever will.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

* * *

"We were spotted," she began, "It wasn't just the Snatchers this time. The wards weren't strong enough against that many Death Eaters looking for us. I'm guessing your side isn't as confident as before." She looked at him. He just stared back blankly, giving no indication of confirmation.

She continued, "Ron was keeping watch that evening. One moment I was dozing off, the next, he was shouting at us to flee. We Apparated.

I panicked. The only place I could think of was Hogwarts. Next thing I knew, I was at Hogsmeade, which would have been fine, if I hadn't appeared right in the middle of The Three Broomsticks, surrounded..." She sucked in a shaky breath.

"One of them stood up. I was disarmed, grabbed, pushed out of the bar and pulled into the back alley." She involuntarily shuddered. She picked up the pillow beside her and pulled it close, wanting to bury her face into it but too proud to do it in front of him.

"The arsehole snapped my wand like a bloody twig," she snarled, her hands clutched dangerously at the pillow. "The stupid bugger didn't even think to restrain me after that. So I st-," deep breath, "I stabbed him. In the heart. From the back. I wasn't looking for a fair fight. And I wasn't just aiming to wound." At this, her grip on the pillow loosened. She started shaking her head. Tears were welling up in her eyes. She looked down and willed her tears to dry.

"They're not here," his offered, "at least Potter isn't." If Harry Potter was here, he would have heard. Not that anyone would have come knocking on his door to inform him of the news. He would have heard the celebrations in the Manor.

Hermione let out a sigh of relief.

They sat in silence for several moments; him watching her, and she refusing to look at him. He was the one who broke the silence, "Well, as fascinating that story was, we've got work to do." She looked up, eyes thankfully dry.

"As you already know, He and his lackeys are occupying my home, which, I don't have to tell you, we are presently in."

She nodded grimly.

"As much as I would like to wash my hands off of you, I can't bring you outside. Nobody is able to Disapparate out of the Manor but Him. Portkey use is tracked. And I have no linked fireplace in my room," he paused as if thinking. "Well, well, Granger. Unless you are keen on running into anyone in the corridors, it looks like you're stuck with me!" he said with false glee, leaning back against his armchair.

"Are we safe in here?" She had a feeling they weren't. He confirmed her fears.

"Unfortunately, no." He sat up straight, expression suddenly serious, voice solemn. "We have to find a way to hide you, in case someone decides to drop by for a visit. Otherwise, it's both our hides."

Her stomach chose that inopportune moment to make its presence known. She blushed.

"Awkward even without the buck teeth, eh Granger?" he smirked. "Dippy!"

The house elf appeared with a crack, and bowed. "What can Dippy do for Young Master Draco?"

"Bring in an extra heavy breakfast for me, Dippy. Tell Mother I would not be down for breakfast. Do not talk about my guest to anybody. You may go."

"Yes, Young Master Draco," Dippy said eagerly, bowed, and Disapparated.

Draco transfigured two plates and a set of utensils. He had contemplated leaving out the set of utensils on purpose, but he was quite certain that she would simply smash one of the aforementioned plates over his head, take his wand, and transfigure them herself. Or she would take his wand AND the utensils Dippy was bound to bring. Both were unattractive outcomes.

* * *

Dippy returned, this time with a tray of the largest set of full English breakfast Hermione had ever seen. He set the tray on the coffee table between them, bowed, and left.

Draco sighed, and took his wand out again, transfiguring the short table into a taller one, much like a smaller version of a dining table. Satisfied, he put his wand away once more and set to eat, but not before snidely remarking, "I'll take the coffee, and you the juice. I don't fancy getting any Muggle germs from you."

Hermione merely rolled her eyes. She couldn't be bothered to argue, not with the feast sitting right in front of her. Food had been scarce and unappetising in the forest. She wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"I expect this is how people like the Weasleys eat; too poor to afford proper silverware, and having to share food," he commented as he transferred some of the toast to his own plate.

Hermione snorted. "You've obviously never seen how much they actually eat; especially Ron."

He merely shrugged and continued eating.

The rest of breakfast was carried out in contemplative silence, the only sounds from the clinking of the tableware.

* * *

With breakfast out of the way, they got to discussing how best to hide any evidence of her being there. That inevitably led to her having to explore his room, which consisted of the connecting study and the bathroom.

Surprisingly, the obscenely large room didn't offer many places to hide from anyone who sought to look for her.

She took a peek under his bed. Unoriginal, but possible, she mused. The existing boxes under the bed could be useful.

The study was separated from the bedroom by a sliding partition, which was usually left open. There was a wine cabinet, a series of bookshelves, and a desk and chair set; all in mahogany.

Hiding under the desk was also possible, if whoever was to come in was a complete moron. Logic and experience told her that most of the remaining Death Eaters, and Voldemort himself, were not of that particular calibre.

They eventually decided that a decoy of some sort would be placed in the study to direct attention away from the bed. Once that was done, they just had to pray that they weren't outsmarted.

At the very least, they thought they stood a better chance against someone crawling on their knees to peek under the bed, or someone who had exerted energy to lift the heavy bed.

* * *

Lunch went by quietly, in pretty much the same manner as breakfast had been conducted.

Draco's list was fast being crossed out. All that was left for the day was to figure out a way to extinguish the lights, then go for patrol and find out about the situation outside; hopefully simultaneously, but probably not.

* * *

By the time dinner came, he was nervously fidgeting. If Granger had noticed, she hadn't commented. For that, he was grateful. He had patrol to go for straight after dinner, and they hadn't figured out a way to lift the charms off of the lights in his room.

The magic was simply too ancient, too modified, and bore too much of the Malfoy magical signature to have been included in Granger's wide reading in Hogwarts. His own knowledge on household charms was severely limited. He'd always thought it to be a trivial field in magic.

Not so trivial now, huh.

Anyone who was walking past would surely see the light under his door when he was supposedly not in there.

At best, they would report him for not going for patrol behind his back. At worst, they would simply barge in and discover her. There wasn't going to be too much of a difference in either outcome when it came to the Dark Lord.

"I'll hide in the bathroom," she voiced, halfway through dinner, "We'll just have to hope that the lights go off when you leave the room."

He considered her offer. Success wasn't guaranteed; he had absolutely no idea how it would work out. There simply hadn't been any reason to try that theory out in the past, and there wasn't a chance to test it out without arousing suspicion in the present.

"And what if that doesn't work?"

She shrugged, "Then I'll need a weapon or two."

He chuckled despite himself. The girl was a savage. "You can have the steak knives," he suggested, "Just don't go carving your initials on every surface in the bathroom."

"Yes, because I am so likely to do that."

"Oh no! Do accept my sincerest apologies. I forgot that you're more of the type to carve an entire essay onto my bathroom walls."

"Quite right. That's how I did so well in school, actually," she replied with a smirk which could rival his own.

The banter was strangely friendly. It scared him. Clearing his throat, he put down his utensils and stood. "Dinner is over. You can go now. I will leave soon," he intoned. Being cold is being safe, he repeated in his head.

* * *

Hermione took a few more bites of the half-eaten dinner, and left for the bathroom, knives in hand.

She at least had a real knife with her if something was to happen to him and the transfigured one expired. The quill it had been transfigured from would hardly be as effective.

She stopped mid-step, and headed back for the forks. For good measure, she thought.

* * *

**AN**: Hello there! Thanks for those following and favouriting the story!

News: My final exams are coming. I can't update frequently without seriously compromising on the quality of the story. I'm afraid I'm going to take a break from this. Please do add this story to your alerts if you're interested in reading more. I've got half (maybe?) the plot figured out (hooray!) and I absolutely am interested in writing more, but probably not now.

Estimated date of next update: After 22 May, before 1 June 2013. Goodbye for a while! Thanks for your support!


	6. Chapter 5

I think the disclaimers in front have made it pretty clear.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 5**

* * *

Draco cast a locking and silencing charm on the bathroom, just in case somebody chose to stop by that day, not that they usually did. At the same time, she wouldn't be able to alert anybody in the house if she chose to betray him. He doubted she would be that stupid, but he hadn't gotten where he was by trust.

He exited his room, fervently hoping that there wouldn't be light leaking through from the bottom of his door once he'd pulled it shut.

He wasn't expecting to meet anybody on his way to patrol. He certainly was not expecting to come face to face with a figure right outside his room.

"Why, hello, Draco! Fancy meeting you here!" Bellatrix Lestrange cooed, batting her eyelashes at her nephew.

He jerked back in shock. "Oh, Aunt Bella. You've startled me! What a pleasant surprise," Draco placed a hand over his heart, holding back a nervous laugh threatening to give him away.

He chose instead to smirk, "I think you've just taken ten years off my life, Aunt Bella." Act casual!

Bellatrix grinned a yellow, decaying grin. "If I hadn't known better, Draco, I would have thought you were hiding something in there!" she waggled her finger at him. Standing on tip toes, she craned her neck and blatantly peeked into his room. Seemingly satisfied there was nothing of interest, she pulled back and smiled at him, saccharine sweet.

Draco took that as a cue to close the door. Let it be dark, please let it be dark, he chanted in his mind. The door closed with a click. He turned purposefully to face his deranged aunt. "Where are you off to, Aunt Bella?" he inquired in a bid to distract his aunt from noticing any anomaly; he hoped there wasn't any.

His aunt was only too happy to answer. "The drawing room of course! What an innocent question to ask, Draco!" she giggled. With that, she skipped off.

He blanched. The drawing room was used to torture the victims that had been brought in. A shudder ran through his body. His first victim had been tortured there. In his house. In the drawing room he used to accompany his mother in when he was just a child. The room he used to play in when there weren't guests.

Flashbacks of his first Cruciatus victim ravaged through his mind. He heard her screams, saw her tears, but had to ignore her pain. Bellatrix had been there, looking on with glee, cackling when they started their delirious begging. Then came flashbacks of the second, the third; all of them.

He felt as if he needed a bath right there and then, but there was no time to waste. He had to leave before his shift started. Being punished for being late was not an attractive idea. He wasn't under any delusions that the Death Eaters would protect one of their own. They were all vying for the same thing. They were rivals seeking for the approval of their master.

Bellatrix turned back suddenly and stared curiously at him. She crooned in a sing-song voice, "Draco! Do keep a look out for Harry Potter and his little friends, won't you? We wouldn't want to be left behind when others are out there gaining credit for capturing them, would we? No, we wouldn't want that." She shook her head and tutted.

"Why would they be out and about, Aunt Bella? Is there something I should be aware of?" he felt the beads of perspiration forming along his hairline.

"Oh silly boy!" she swaggered back to him. She leant in conspiratorially and whispered loudly into his ear, "We found their campsite yesterday evening while you were on patrol! Now they're probably split up and lost; vulnerable like ickle puppies," she let out an evil cackle before pulling away. Blowing him a kiss, she strutted off, disappearing around the corner.

She'd just given him more incentive to take a bath, and yet he couldn't. Damn this lack of control! He clenched his fists and drew in a deep shuddering breath.

He forced himself to look at the gap underneath his door. Good, completely dark.

He left hastily, following after his deranged aunt.

* * *

The Floo at Hog's Head was as vile as its patrons. Flimsy cobwebs, randomly splattered with bugs, adorned the fireplace. His face scrunched up in disgust. Guess the welcome party is here, he thought grimly.

He wondered if it was the resilience of the spiders or the stupidity of the bugs trapped on the web that amazed him more. Were they trying to Floo somewhere? He wouldn't be surprised. The inn was full of unsavoury characters. He was an unsavoury character. An unsavoury character who got caught in the "Floo of Cobwebs" almost daily. Maybe he was dumber than the bugs. At least they didn't fly into the web that often. Then again, they didn't have the chance to.

He didn't have much choice, to be honest. The only other available Floo in Hogsmeade was at the Three Broomsticks.

Perhaps he was being unreasonably sentimental, but he rather disliked seeing Death Eaters and Snatchers sitting in the spots that had previously been occupied by students his age. Also, he was magically barred from entering the bar.

Can't forget that, he thought wryly.

Madam Rosmerta had flown into a rage once she had been released from his Imperius in Sixth Year, and had immediately put a repelling charm against him on both the pub and herself.

Once, he had tried to Floo into the Three Broomsticks. He had landed face-first on the cold marble floor of the drawing room, spat out by his own fireplace. He was grateful no one had been around to witness it then. Would have provided some comic relief.

He cleared his head of the running thoughts and checked his expression. Head held high (which wasn't really a practical move), he stepped through the cobwebs, which, without fail, stuck to his clothes, his face, and his hair.

Brushing off the substance nonchalantly, he walked through the pub filled with nameless men, none of them paying him any heed.

He swung the door open and stepped out of the dank bar into the even more humid night.

* * *

**AN**: Here it is! I'm back to posting chapters!

Do drop me a review, feedback is welcome!


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

* * *

Nothing spectacular happened that night. Other than bumping into the occasional drunk, the alleys were quiet.

Too quiet.

Bellatrix had outwardly implied that there would be Death Eaters out looking for Potter and company. There was no reason for the absurd silence that night. There should be more bustle.

Even if the Death Eaters had somehow deemed it beneath them to search for him in public, they would have sent the signal for the Snatchers to do the job.

Unless. Unless somehow, they'd already captured Potter.

No. The Morsmorde would surely have been activated then. The sky bore no trace of the sinister Dark Mark, only gloomy clouds.

Something had to be up. Were they wary of him? Had someone seen him yesterday? Were they watching him now?

A chill shot down his spine, followed by a small bout of cold sweat gathering at his hairline. Paranoia was never a good friend of his; never knew when not to show up. He dared not turn to check on his surroundings.

Forcing his feet to continue moving with his normal gait, he ploughed on. There was only one destination in mind now: the Three Broomsticks.

He had no choice, really. If someone was indeed watching him, it wouldn't do to arouse more suspicion. At best he would be accused of not properly executing his sentry duties. At worst, he would be accused of harbouring a murderer. Never mind what the Death Eaters though about the inferiority of the Snatchers, a crime was an opportunity if it served their interests.

They must have found the Snatcher by now, right? Surely, Granger's scream would have alerted them!

Running thoughts gave way to more systematic planning as he made his way to the pub. Preoccupied with conjuring up the worst case scenarios and rehearsing them, his eyes did not register any anomaly along the streets. All he saw was the usual rubbish strewn all over.

* * *

Halfway to the pub, his hands had started shaking so much that he was convinced that the light from his wand tip was oscillating like a bloody pendulum. He tried gripping his hands to the point where his knuckles turned white. The shaking did not cease. He was convinced that his knuckles would actually start to glow from the pressure. Exactly what he needed: to be even more conspicuous.

He decided to swing his wand from side to side as a bid to disguise the incessant shaking, illuminating the piles of rubbish littering the streets, clogging the drains. Daily maintenance was clearly not a priority of the townspeople in those times.

He felt the faint buzz of magic surround him; the repelling charm on the Three Broomsticks. Instinctively, he swallowed the lump in his throat.

The Three Broomsticks was very much in operation. The lights were on, customers were drinking. As far as he could see, nothing was out of the ordinary.

Then, he smelt it. The stench. Wafting through the night air like a wandering soul. He gagged.

Swallowing down the bile threatening to rise up his throat, he managed to choke out the incantations to a bubble-head charm before gasping in deep breaths of fresh air. Someone was seriously messing with his head. Surely, the patrons of the pub would have smelt that same overwhelming stench?

Operating like clockwork at this point, his feet brought him to that fateful back alley. Sure enough, the corpse hadn't been moved. Ironically, that same knowledge returned him some semblance of control over the situation. It narrowed the scope of his options. He was now sure that he was under surveillance. Perhaps not him, per se, but the area itself was certainly under surveillance.

He checked the area for traps and spells, but found none.

Drawing yet nearer to the decomposing heap, he belatedly registered that there was a horde of flies feasting on the mess. How had he not heard the din? Focus, Draco!

On a sensory overload, he felt strangely detached from the situation. It was as if he was viewing a piece of memory from a Pensieve. Was he merely reliving a memory? He held up his hands. No. He was an active participant in this one.

Forcing in a sharp intake of breath, he knew he had to set to work. He made a show of examining the corpse, the light reflecting off the pool of blood not yet dried. The stab wound was lined with beads of white, of which some were squirming; eggs and maggots. Screwing his face into a grimace, he hastily shifted the wand light to focus on the face of the nameless, finding that he still couldn't put a name to the face. All he saw was an old scar running down the side of a relatively young face. One never knew when one would die these days.

He directed his wand to where he had last seen Granger's wand. It was still there, lying innocently, vulnerably.

"Malfoy"

He almost jumped. He would have jumped, had he not been practising all his life not to. He forced himself to turn around as passively as he could pull off.

"Zabini," he nodded curtly, "I see it's time for your shift."

"What have you got there, Malfoy?" Blaise Zabini nodded in the direction of the corpse, looking almost disinterested.

Years of living in the same dormitory had taught Draco that Blaise Zabini never let anything past his sight. He was a silent observer, biding his time for a reason to strike. "What I've got here, is a corpse, Zabini."

"Killed him, have you?"

"Yes, left him here to rot here a whole week, undiscovered."

"The blood would have dried in two days," came the blunt reply.

"Quite right. Guess it wasn't my work then," Draco raised his eyebrow, as if challenging the Italian.

The darker-skinned man did not take the bait, choosing instead to draw the attention towards the broken wand.

"Look what the culprit left, then. Whose do you reckon it is?"

"Must be a girl's, judging from the carvings on it," Draco plastered on a smirk, "Can only imagine what he was trying to do."

Blaise appraised him thoughtfully.

Was his cover blown?

"She couldn't have gotten very far without her wand, could she?" Blaise was staring intently at him now.

Feigning nonchalance, Draco asked, "You reckon someone rescued her but didn't have half the brain to retrieve her wand?" He shrugged, "Then we don't have to worry about finding them, would we?"

"No, we won't," Blaise looked at him almost passively, lazily.

Draco decided that he couldn't risk staying there for much longer to play mind games with a fellow Slytherin. Besides, that last statement was a subtle cue for him to leave. There would not be a second chance, and he did not look gifts horse in the mouth.

"Looks like it's time for me to leave, Zabini. Pity, you'd have to clean up this mess." He took a few steps further away from Blaise, quickly appraised his surroundings for any possible stowaways, and Disapparated.

He landed gracelessly; the adrenalin had drained away and his legs simply refused to support his weight anymore.

He found himself flat on the carpet, faced down.

He merely turned over on his back.

He didn't care.

He was safe.

For now.

* * *

**AN**: I apologise for the late update! I was feeling rather uninspired staring at my computer until I finally decided to put pen on paper (literally). Thank you for the reviews and follows/favourites in the last chapter!

On a side note, I've revised chapter 1 (not the prologue, I know, it's a bit confusing) before I posted the last chapter. I forgot to mention it the last time around. But there's no change in content.

I found this chapter still a little fragmented. I might revise it some time in the future. In the meantime, please bear with me! :3


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

* * *

On the carpeted floor he laid, for what seemed to be hours, reliving flashback after flashback, conjecturing and speculating the motives of one Blaise Zabini.

That was the biggest unknown, wasn't it? Draco was fairly confident that the night's standalone performance was passable, but it wasn't the point. Not really.

What really mattered wasn't if Blaise had bought his act. Rather, it boiled down to the night before; whether he had seen Granger, whether he had seen him.

The only good thing to come out of that night's patrols was that the possibilities were narrowed. Fantastic. There were now only three possibilities, weren't there?

Knowing Blaise (or perhaps, not knowing would be more appropriate in this case), he would already have had a grand scheme planned out. Blackmail was arguably a staple in such grand schemes.

Then again, what could he, Draco Malfoy, possibly be of help that the Dark Lord couldn't?

"Surely, he cannot be planning to use me to revolt! That's insanity! Git will probably get us all killed!"

Draco shook his head. No. Blaise wasn't a fool. Himself? He hadn't displayed any signs of disloyalty to the Dark Lord to give anyone the wrong idea. None whatsoever. Except for that foolish rescue, that is.

He cursed. Pushing himself up off the floor, he began to pace. The carpet felt too soft, like he was floating and looking down on his decaying corpse after the Dark Lord was done with him.

"Calm down, Draco. Calm down. Don't dwell on this. You can't be sure. Maybe he doesn't know a thing. Yes, that must be it. Why else would I still be here, alive? He would have claimed his prize reporting to the Dark Lord," he stopped his mumbling and shuddered at the thought, his pacing at an abrupt halt.

Maybe he had.

Maybe all this time, they had already been planning his demise; his slow and torturous death. He would be played with and used until he was broken and a nervous wreck. After his years of serving the Dark Lord, he at least knew one thing about the man: Lord Voldemort had a wicked sense of humour, in the most literal sense.

He'd experienced it, having been on the receiving end of one of those wicked jokes; set up to fail for his father's incompetence. Of course, he had escaped because of his godfather.

He was sure the fates wouldn't be so kind a second time. He wasn't the sodding Boy Who Wouldn't Die.

Those eyes he had felt on him… was that the plan in motion? Perhaps the plan was to drive him over the brink of insanity; to make fun of him while he was still alive. Happened to a lot of people, hadn't it? Slowly driving them mad, like a slow and physically painless version of the _Cruciatus_. To feel yourself falling apart but being unable to find an anchor to hold on to reality.

The notion brought about an invisible force, wrapping around his head. In the end, he would only be a mere statistic, wouldn't he? One of the hundreds, dead by the Dark Lord's hands.

A wave of nausea set in, and his throat felt unnaturally constricted. He stumbled to the bathroom. No amount of _Scourify_ would be able to save the carpet from vomit.

He rattled the knob, only to find it locked. He panicked. Why the hell was his bathroom door locked?

Dark spots were starting to appear. He pounded on the door "Open. UP!" but it was to no avail.

By then, the spots had gained a yellowish outline and were clouding his vision and his head felt heavy. Great, he was going to faint. He'd probably choke on his own vomit too. Just great. Committing accidental suicide. His mother would have to deal with his semi-lunatic father and the certifiably mad Dark Lord, alone. And Granger would starve to death in the bathroom. He almost laughed at the irony of that last statement: the brightest witch of their age, defeated by an _Alohamora_.

Almost, because it was then he remembered that HE was the one who had locked the door in the first place. That, and that he would have been defeated by the locking spell first. He laughed, long and loud, humourlessly.

Smacking his head against the door frame in a pitiful bid to remain standing, he managed to whip out his wand to unlock the door.

He rushed into the toilet, almost knocking his front teeth out against the porcelain seat in his haste. Of course, he did not see Granger lowering down the knives she had been holding onto for the past few minutes of the ordeal.

Beads of perspiration rolled off his temple, onto his face, and off his chin. Dripping and dripping. It sounded strangely calming to him.

The dark spots were becoming smaller (and less multi-coloured), and he was no longer breaking out in cold sweat.

After minutes of leaning over the bowl in anticipation of vomiting, he finally leaned back, convinced that the urge to throw up was gone.

Maybe he didn't have to come in here in the first place. He could have just left the door locked, and Granger to starve. That would solve the ongoing problem of harbouring a Light supporter. Cleaning up would be a problem, though. He wasn't looking forward to smelling another decaying body any time soon. He leaned back over the toilet and threw up.

At the back of his mind, he thought he felt a warm hand rubbing on his back while he hurled. He couldn't be sure. Frankly, he was too preoccupied to care whose hand it was. It could be Saint Potter's or Voldemort's, and he couldn't be bothered to summon the energy to even give a damn.

He choked. It felt as though he was throwing up more than just food. He wouldn't be surprised if his stomach itself came up through his mouth.

And the smell. Oh Merlin, the smell! How could he stop vomiting when what was directly in front of his nose smelt so rancid? He needed to stop the smell! Where was his wand? Damn it, where the hell was his wand?

* * *

Either he had gotten used to the stench, or his stomach had nothing else to give, because what seemed to be an endless struggle stopped.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood. Hermione took the hint and exited the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Mistaking her actions for trying to lock him in, he threw the door open and grabbed her by the shoulders.

"Where have you taken my wand, Mudblood?!" he shouted in her face.

She had the audacity to wrinkle her nose and attempt to glare him down before replying "Summon it".

"What?"

"Summon. Your. Wand." she reiterated, albeit more impatient at both his attitude and the smell wafting up her nostrils.

Barely containing his anger, he shoved her away. "_Accio _wand," he glared at her, fully expecting his wand to come flying from her person. What he got was a knock on the back of his head from his flying wand.

"You dropped it when you rushed in there," Granger stated in her snooty, matter-of-factly way, "And may I suggest you some oral hygiene procedures to get rid of the-"

Draco slammed the door shut behind him.

* * *

He gargled and rinsed, and gargled and rinsed. The foul smell lingered in his mind, refusing to abate. Which stench, he really didn't want to think about, or he suspected he would be in for another session of vomiting.

He looked up and scrutinised the person in the mirror, face paler than usual, expression reflecting fear, haggardness, and some degree of guilt. Coward!

He scowled.

Better.

* * *

**A/N:** I have no idea how many times I rewrote the first half of this chapter. I'm sufficiently satisfied with it now (finally).

I do apologise for the long delay. I have no good excuse. =\ Hopefully, you still remember the story, somewhat.

To the guest reviewer: Yes, I think I have, twice.

To all of you, this chapter felt like a filler to me. Urgh. Hopefully, I'm able to churn out the next chapter soon. It's written, but not polished. Not that it makes a difference, because look how long I took to 'polish' this chapter. Pffft!

That aside, I do enjoy writing and hopefully you enjoy my writing! =D

Drop me a review, a suggestion, or follow, or whatever. I appreciate it!


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

* * *

By the time Draco was prepared for bed, his hands had fortunately ceased their shaking. Schooling his expression into a neutral one (the scowl hadn't lasted long) he entered the bedroom.

Granger was already lying on the couch, but her eyes were wide open; alert.

He expected that she was studying his every move. He couldn't be sure; he dared not make eye contact. He wasn't planning to apologise, so by default, he shouldn't have to acknowledge her presence.

Besides, he thought that the night's events had been traumatic enough to justify his suspicion and aggression towards her.

Yes. That must be it. He was too exhausted to think rationally.

He climbed into bed and pulled the comforter up to his chin. The lights dimmed, providing him additional cover. He curled into a ball, one hand clutched tightly onto the comforter. It wasn't long before he drifted off in a fitful sleep.

* * *

Hermione on the other hand was having trouble falling asleep. She wasn't used to sleeping so much, and to be honest, she was scared. There was nobody she could trust. She didn't have Harry or Ron with her. She only had one Draco Malfoy. Trust wasn't an issue with him. It was a given that there was none.

One little slip up on his part, intentional or unintentional, would put her in immediate danger. Not only were the Death Eaters after her for being part of the Golden Trio, the Snatchers were probably after her for their personal grudge.

And now? Now, she couldn't even discount the possibility that he was capable of personally harming her.

The night spent crouching in the bathroom hadn't gotten her any closer to her escape.

She had spent it clutching onto the knives all-too-tightly, refusing to let go even when her hands had begun to cramp.

Subconsciously, she held her hands up in front of her, examining the red parallel lines running diagonally across each hand. Strangely, it didn't hurt. There was something about self-inflicted pain that never seemed to bring as much agony as they should seem to.

Her back however was aching from crouching in wait the majority of the time she had been alone. She had started the vigil by sitting on the edge of the bathtub, but the slightest noise had frightened her. She had later established that it was merely a drop of water from a leaky faucet (did Malfoy not know about this?) but the damage was done. Her nerves were already frayed and her mind had descended into paranoia.

Preoccupied with thoughts of what to do if someone else were to enter and find her, she found herself crouching in position beside the door, running through how she would strike down her opponent.

Attempting to think up theoretical escape plans was promptly thrown out the window; the manor was unknown to her. Even without considering the extensive security measures, there was a great chance that she wouldn't get out of the place; spending the remainder of her life finding her way out of the labyrinth she was certain was the manor.

She wasn't a coward, but she was a cautious tactician. There were simply too many possibilities in the unfamiliar place. Hell, she didn't even know which floor she was on! She needed more information to get back to the boys, alive.

Her mind, having nowhere else to retreat to; no plans to make, went back to its hypersensitive state of paranoia. There really was nowhere to run if someone else barged in. The spacious bathroom suddenly seemed so small.

She would have probably had to wing it by running out of Draco's room. She was not the type to wing it. The last time she had done that, she ended up killing a person, and in this state.

Then, she remembered hearing the pounding on the door. After finding out earlier on that Malfoy had locked the bathroom door, she had started to panic when the person outside was having difficulty lifting the charm. She was either never getting out from there because Malfoy forgot how to undo his own bloody charm, or somebody was breaking in.

Then the muffled shouting began. Open up? No way in hell. Not that she could, anyway. She was as locked in as they were locked out.

As the thought dawned on her, the room seemed to be closing in. Yes, she was locked in; trapped. The steak knives suddenly seemed so useless. At least, she hoped that Draco had used a complex locking charm. She at least could physically survive being locked in for about a week. Her mind though, she wasn't so sure. The bathroom seemed to suffocate even her thoughts then.

Then, reprieve.

She remembered how her eyes had automatically welled up when she saw him, and not an unfamiliar enemy. She'd had to restrain herself from hugging him. Then, she saw him crash into a halt, kneeling clumsily in front of the toilet.

Her emotions overwhelmed her and she placed her hand on his back, trying her hardest not to gag. As much as she'd wanted to escape the blasted bathroom, she thought she owed him at least that little gesture of comfort. Even things out a bit.

Then, he turned on her. The bastard.

Sure, he had never been on her side, but to accuse her of stealing his wand? That was just insulting her integrity; not that she hadn't expected something like that happening. He was Draco loathsome Malfoy after all.

Honestly though, what had actually gotten her angry was that his insinuation hadn't hit home. She hadn't managed to think up an escape plan to have any use for a wand. Really, she was angrier at herself than at him. She wasn't about to tell him that, of course. She had her pride, and he was the convenient punching bag.

She stared up at the ceiling from her couch. Technically it was his couch. As far as she knew, everything in that room was his. Even her life was in his hands.

She shivered. It was cold. She couldn't start losing hope.

She absolutely had to find a way to leave. She could repay his sudden moment of weakness (or bout of kindness, she preferred to imagine) when she was far, far away, preferably alive. Preferably with the also-alive Harry and Ron.

That night, she did not sleep. Fragments of ideas ran through her head, but nothing took shape. Even with a clearer frame of mind, she didn't have enough information about her exact location to form any of her signature fool proof plans. That wasn't even taking into account the amount of security they had in place.

One night wouldn't be enough for even the brightest brain to come up with all the different speculated permutations of escape. And hers was one of the brightest.

* * *

When Draco awoke in the morning, it was to sunlight.

He groaned and pulled the covers over his eyes. He hadn't slept well that night. Why, he could not remember at that moment.

He closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the cocoon he had created. He was about to nod off when memories of the night before hit him. He jolted up with a silent, barely audible gasp.

Hermione jerked her head towards him, with an unmistakable _crick_. She winced. Her left hand immediately flew to her neck, leaving her right hand the only support for the oversized pillow. It tumbled onto the ground with a suppressed thud.

There was silence. Then Draco roared with hoarse laughter. It seemed that his emotions were running a little loose that morning. The whole situation probably didn't seem very funny on a normal day.

"Good morning to you, too," she said sarcastically, still rubbing the side of her neck.

Pity, seemed to be nothing serious.

On the bright side the pillow must have been somehow enchanted to make her a source of his amusement, first the night before, then now. He watched bemused as she glared at it (he imagined) in disgust.

The laughter eventually died down into a chuckle, then silence again. Realising bitterly that he hadn't had a laugh in a while now, he sobered, his expression grim at once.

"Dippy!"

The house elf appeared immediately.

Before it could say anything, he barked, "Apple! Now!" Apples were good. Apples calmed his nerves, brought him back to his normal state.

Dippy Disapparated, only to come back the next instant with a green apple on a small silver plate.

Draco took the plate, waved his hand dismissively at the creature, held up the apple, and sunk a bite into it.

He felt her eyes on him.

"What," he said in what he hoped was an intimidating manner, eyebrow raised and all. Unfortunately, it wasn't; not with his mouth full.

She raised an eyebrow in challenge, "A green apple? How absolutely Slytherin of you, Malfoy." She restrained herself from commenting on his negligence of oral hygiene practices.

"I take it you prefer yours red? How typically Gryffindor," he retorted.

"Actually, no. I like green apples as much as I do red ones. They're different and they bring variety," she replied thoughtfully. "However, I do have to say that I'm not much of an apple person. I much prefer oranges. No unwanted distinction based on anything other than its substance."

He rolled his eyes, catching her intended meaning. "Green apples taste different, you know."

"There are different varieties of green apples, you know," she mocked.

That, he did not know. He only knew of good ol' Granny Smiths because that was simply what he had been given; grown up with. He took a bite from his apple. "Well, I like Granny Smiths."

"Have you tried any other?" Her question was rhetorical. It was as if she had read his thoughts. She turned away, her back to him.

There were many things he thought he knew, but did he really?

He plopped back on his bed, mulling over what she had just said, desperately trying to block the link to his beliefs about Purebloods, Halfbloods, and Mudbl- Muggleborns.

He came to one conclusion: people were not apples!

He took another bite before spitting it out. Its core was black.

* * *

**A/N:** Boy! That took a while! And this was still mostly pre-written. I just tried to polish it up a bit. *dramatics* Whatever would I do for the unplanned/unwritten chapters?

Taking this chance, I would like to thank all the people who have expressed interest in the story (reviewers, favouriters, and followers). I hope this chapter wasn't too much of a filler for you. Seems like all I write is them thinking. Bah!

See you when I see you! In the meantime, cheers!


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